Violet Sheer
by iLoveweirdishthings
Summary: Who is Violet Sheer?


_So, I basically just decided to re-write this whole story just because I don't think I started it at a right time, set the story at a weird kind of place and made my character seem like a Mary-Sue type. I honestly DON'T want Violet to seem perfect and Mary-Sue like-ish. And I have been getting reviews just saying that the way I'm writing about her makes her seem perfect, which she's not. So, ya' I guess I'll just try to re-write this story and fix my other ones to make them better. So ya' I hope you guys enjoy the new version of this story and please review :D thanks. And yes, I did try doing an Ellen Hopkins poetry thing right here xD I apologize for the not-so-good impersonation._

**Violet's P.O.V.**

**I await**

For the murderous man to come back,

and when he gets here it'll be the same old routine. He'll

crouch like a sneaky fox and then pounce like a psychotic mountain lion on his weak prey.

That's me.

I am the prey that awaits the cold-blooded murderer's return.

The sound of the grandfather's ticking echoes throughout the whole house, yet I am the only

one he hears it. But, then again, I can't really blame _her. _

The only other woman-if you can even call her that-is my selfish, self-absorbed mother. Her

newly dyed blond hair stands tall as a skyscraper even, yet this still doesn't please her. She

continues to tease it furiously, pilling all that shiny silky hair in an enormous clump that sort-of

reminds me of a mountain. Crystal blue eyes are flaring with a fire so deadly that not even the

devil would want those flames licking at his body. These fires grow and become more intense as

she works more and more at perfecting her hair. Then the mountain on top of her head

becomes more like realistic and even pretty and the blue flames calm down. Eventually the

once sinful eyes are now peaceful and cool. But that only lasts for a second.

"_Mother,_" I say in my most respectful voice. "_What time shall father be arriving home?" _

I hear a disgusted grunt noise and then a deep snarl. "_How the hell should I know!_" she yells back and then a bang-like someone slamming their fist on a hard wooden desk-follows. "_He comes home at the same time every night, Violet._" She snarls like a leopard. "_Don't ask such stupid questions. Are you really that retarded?_"

I don't respond and the leopard pounces again.

"_Stupid little bitch._"

Her words echo throughout my mind and I look down at the floor, glum thoughts running through me.

Finally her attacks fade and I begin to listen to the tick-tock of the clock again. _One, two, three,_

_four. One, two, three, four. _I count in my head. Soon my foot begins to tap the rhythm and

before I know it, it's time.

The door swings open and the man in the gray suit with the coal eyes enters. He approaches

me while resting his stuff on the chair next to mine. He doesn't smile. His face shows no joy.

Aren't fathers supposed to me happy when they come home and find that their daughter

Is waiting for them?

"_Hi, dad._" I state as he begins pulling papers from his briefcase. "_How was your-_"

He turns to me with dark eyes. His eyes aren't like mother's-they don't contain flames that

could burn the soul of any living thing in existence his eyes are plainly black. They never end and

filled with no emotions. They are just black.

He fist soon follows his eyes and then, before I expect it, he hits me directly across the face.

"_Cut the shit you little bitch,_" he says. "_I'm not in the mood for your little games today._"

I smirk and look up at him. The blood flows down from my mouth, but it's no big deal.

I'm used to it. "_And what games are you speaking of, father?_"

He hits me again. "_You know exactly what I mean. These stupid games of you trying to act like_

_you're perfect._" Well, he caught me. _"This formal speaking crap you're using. The way you waited _

_for your old man to come home. It's all shit. You're not perfect-not even close to perfect, Violet. _

_Deal with it."_

And with that he picks up his stuff and leaves me to go greet the hag in the other room. The

hag with ugly blond hair, greedy blue eyes and a witch smile. It's a surprise that I get my looks

from that woman, yet men ogle me all the time. Was she ever pretty and kind like the woman

at the salon always talk about? I wonder…

"_That little cunt of a daughter we have is so selfish!" _I hear my mom yell. _"Richard, she didn't _

_even acknowledge my new hairdo."_

"_its okay, Susan." _My father says, calming her down. _"How can she comment on such beautiful hair when she doesn't have any beauty in her? I mean, really, she looks like something a pig threw up."_

The wicked woman laughs and soon he follows. _"Your right, honey."_ She says. _"I shouldn't worry about it, but I do wonder one thing."_

"_What's that, princess?"_

"_How did we ever end up with such a pathetic, idiotic and ugly daughter when we ourselves are _

_the most fabulous people in New York?"_

I freeze and listen eagerly for my dad's reply. A part of me wants to smack my mother across

her face and defend me. I want my dad to be able to say that he has a beautiful daughter that

he adores and loves. But that's all fantasies and dreams. And my dreams never come true.

"_Susan, are you sure you didn't have an affair with the town idiot and he's the real father of that _

_child in there?"_

My mother laughs and the two start telling each other more ridiculous jokes and comments

about me.

I bit my lip as I try to send the tears back. There already close to spilling over on my face, but I

can't let that happen. I'll never let it happen. Because if I cry again it'll just prove that their right

and that I am a pathetic, ugly loser. It'll show that I am weak.

I tightened my hands into fists and, slowly very slowly, the pain from their comments starts to

fade and the tears that were once so close to spilling over disappear as if nothing ever

happened.

I sit in the wooden chair, staring down at my feet not speaking and too afraid to move. Why

Can't I have parents that love me? That are proud of me? That support me?

Maybe I'm just not worth it. Maybe God forgot about me. Maybe…Maybe he never loved me.

It wouldn't be the first time that I never got love from a man I admired.


End file.
